


Lost and Found

by HalfBakedPoet



Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [17]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chameleon Arch (Doctor Who), Chameleon Circuit (Doctor Who), Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Fobwatched Doctor (Doctor Who), Hurt/Comfort, It's The Yearning, Post-Episode: Revolution of the Daleks, Rating May Change, Roommates, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates), buckle up for hurtsville beep beep, early xmas gift for my girlfriend, it's the plausibility factor that makes good fic, originally she was supposed to beta but I like this way better, thasmin, this most definitely won't happen but what the hell I like this idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfBakedPoet/pseuds/HalfBakedPoet
Summary: Fresh out of prison, the Doctor goes into hiding... into a shared flat with Yaz.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: One Shot, Two Shot, Some Shots, Blue Box [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668127
Comments: 75
Kudos: 88





	1. Prologue: The Chameleon Arch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabraneadaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/gifts).



> Merry Early Christmas to my girlfriend <3
> 
> Happy holidays to the rest of y'all

“Right, Yaz, you’re gonna hold this for me…” The Doctor pressed a pocket watch into Yaz’s palm.

“Doctor, I don’t think—”

“...and when I say, hold it up to my forehead, just there…” She tapped the space between her eyebrows where her worry crease most often appeared, and began fastening electrodes to her temples.

“What’ll happen?” asked Yaz, rooted to the spot. Her fingers curled around the watch by instinct; a smooth metal disc, warmed by the Doctor’s touch. Her stomach churned; the Doctor hadn’t fully explained the chameleon arch, and there she was, wedging her head between the mechanism’s prongs.

“...just need to feed into the circuit here…” she muttered. Absent as she fiddled with wires, eyes magnified by goggle lenses, the Doctor waved airily. “It’s fine, I’ve done this before! Just a bit of harmless biological alteration—”

_“Biological alteration?”_

Her mouth pushed upward, and those slim, rummaging hands ceased their frenetic activity. She set the goggles atop her head, displacing hair to stick out in every direction under the strap. “Well. It’s still _me_. After a fashion.” And with a shrug, she was back at it with sonic awhir, her upper lip pulling back as she squinted at a panel. “You and the TARDIS’ll keep the watch safe from harm until I can come back,” she said matter-of-factly, with the firm flip of a switch. The TARDIS hummed to life, the low sound pressing inward on Yaz’s ears, filling them up like water. It sounded to Yaz like a reluctant whine, though it could’ve been her imagination.

“And when’s that?” she asked the Doctor’s back.

“I… Like I said, it’ll be fine. Probably. Only my whole consciousness stored in there...” the Doctor mumbled through her sonic, clenched firmly between her lips. “And in excellent hands as well,” she said, as if comforting herself. The TARDIS beeped. “Hands can be metaphorical, you know!” Again, the ship buzzed. “Fine, excellent hands and vortex regulation rods. Happy?” The TARDIS grumbled. “I’ll be fine. Most likely,” the Doctor repeated, massaging the back of her neck.

“You’d better mean ‘definitely’,” said Yaz. “What if you can’t come back?” She shuffled back into the Doctor’s line of sight, arms crossing of their own accord. With a crack, a spark leapt to the Doctor’s fingertips, and she jerked away.

“S’alright, I promise! Got a perfect track record of coming back from a human holiday.” She flicked her wrist with a scowl, shaking the feeling back into her hand.

“A human… and how many times is that?”

The Doctor paused to count on her fingers. Her nose rumpled, and she returned to her task, either forgetting to answer or electing to refuse. It was a fuzzy line Yaz hadn’t improved at telling apart.

Yaz grasped her sleeve. “Doctor, this is mad, you can’t—” The Doctor yanked free without looking at her.

“I can and I have to, Yaz.” Her voice was stony, the same timbre as on Gallifrey, though her motion was somehow softer. Or maybe Yaz wasn’t clinging to her arm as tight, as though she still couldn’t believe the Doctor was back.

“But you’ve only just arrived— the Daleks are gone, you can relax…”

“Not after that jailbreak. People out there still looking for me. How long before another Judoon platoon dispatches from their… saloon? Well, more of a freighter ship, actually...”

The Doctor was settling backward into the alcove in the TARDIS wall, her bright eyes calm though the lines furrowing into her face betrayed worry. She hadn’t told Yaz how long she’d been in that asteroid, hadn’t said a thing about what happened on Gallifrey or how she got there, though Yaz could tell by her nose that she desperately needed a bath—more so than usual. But no sooner had they purged the Daleks from Earth than she rolled up her sleeves and had gotten to work with grim determination. The sonic screwdriver flashed rampant amber, and the Doctor gave a satisfied nod as the crystal went dark.

Yaz fumbled to stall her. “Why are you doing the exact same thing as Ruth, then? If they found her—you in the end?” she asked, resisting every urge to rip the Doctor free from the web of delicate copper wires. It wouldn’t be hard, but she knew better than to fiddle with the TARDIS’ inner workings. She didn’t want the Doctor to turn into a guinea pig by accident.

But the Doctor managed a winning smile for her. “That’s the beauty of it, Yaz! Hiding in plain sight. They’ve seen it once, they won’t expect it again. Have them chasing their tails for a good century or so—”

 _“I_ don’t have a century,” blurted Yaz. Had the Doctor forgotten the average length of a human life? Yaz clenched her jaw, though the Doctor didn’t see.

“No, I don’t expect you do.” Her fingers, smudged with solder and soot, flexed on a pair of handles jutting from the alcove on either side of her elbows. She set her jaw. “Right. Just a short turn on Earth until the TARDIS scans say all clear. Deal?” Her gaze flicked toward Yaz, who bit her lip. It was too soon to leave like this, only hours and a hasty hug after her return—even the Doctor knew it: unbidden, her eyes shone, bright and watery.

But they were still set and determined. Yaz and the Doctor severed their eye contact to look at diverging patches of the floor.

“You’d better be right about this,” breathed Yaz.

“When am I not right?” asked the Doctor too lightly, pointing her sonic at the console. Yaz opened her mouth. “Wait. Don’t answer that.” The sonic chirped, and a lever on the console stuttered on its way down. The machinery’s hesitation lasted only a millisecond before the chameleon arch began to pulse and glow, the TARDIS thrumming in a dogged way that invoked a child dragging her heels. The Doctor’s steady, confident smile only faltered when electricity began to crackle about her temples.

Yaz would remember the way golden fire erupted from the Doctor’s eyes, how it was sucked into the watch in her hand with the few tears the Doctor had refused to shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, howdy!
> 
> It's been a hot several months since I posted any fic--I've been working on a novel! Now that it's first drafted and the year is winding down, I took a break from writing for a bit, and I'm gearing back up for draft two with some fic. Might be a little rusty, who knows? 
> 
> Endless possibilities before the New Year special!
> 
> In case you haven't already read them, I have a bajillion other fics for your pleasure. Smash any buttons you like, comments are my favorite thing, and remember to be kind to yourselves and others. And wear a mask, wash your hands, and stay socially distant.
> 
> xojo


	2. Yaz

“Yaz, your girlfriend’s just turned up again.” Ramesh Sunder leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“I wonder how I’m supposed to get this paperwork done when—” The word _girlfriend_ registered in Yaz’s burning ears. With a sigh, she knuckled her forehead to hide her blush. “She’s not my…”

“Flatmate, girlfriend, just handle it, alright? No more visits.” He left Yaz to throw down her pencil, his voice trailing behind him, half amused, “Hasn’t she got a job yet?” Yaz rubbed her temples.

“I’d rather have taken the Judoon again,” she muttered. It had been a rapid two months of hasty reparations with Sunder, moving out of the Khan family flat and into a reasonable accommodation closer to work, and tiptoeing around—

“D— _Jo.”_ The blonde woman’s head whipped around, her visitor’s badge askew, and she grinned, the fluorescent light bounding from her teeth. Yaz’s irritation melted into confusion; Jo’s smile was somehow more open and earnest in her joy than the Doctor ever would have been. And yet, Jo _was_ the Doctor; Yaz still caught herself in her own surprise and had to remind herself that the Doctor had always been capable of Jo—though Jo herself might not have been capable of the Doctor. _It’s still me. After a fashion._

“Yaz! Glad I caught you. You forgot your lunch.” Jo held out a navy tin lunch box printed all over with planets, which she shoved into Yaz’s arms. “Thought I’d drop in, since we’re so close by. Make sure you weren’t hungry…”

“Yeah. Um… Thanks.” What else was she supposed to say? Yaz frowned, and Jo saw.

“Did I do something wrong?” Jo’s face fell, her hopeful smile melting at Yaz’s expression.

“No,” said Yaz quickly, feeling her neck begin to sear again. “Really. Thank you. I would’ve been starved and grumpy when I got home.” Her arm hung at her side, fist closed around the tin’s handle. Better to be direct about it. “It’s just… I’ve been told you can’t come here anymore.”

“What?” Genuine surprise in those wide hazel eyes. Of course. “Why? S’not like I’ve been round every day! Well, there was that one time I couldn’t get the microwave to stop sparking—

“You left your spoon in—

“...and that dog I saw was very important—”

“Jo, you could’ve texted me.”

“What would I look like, taking a picture of someone else’s dog?”

“Literally _everyone_ does it—”

“...besides, you’re just ten minutes’ walk away.” Jo huffed. An awkward silence elbowed a place for itself between them.

Inwardly, Yaz groaned. While it was true that their flat was taken care of in terms of bills, and it _did_ feel pointless to nudge Jo towards another job, Yaz knew she had to be itching for something to do. The last three jobs had ended in various states of disaster, with the final calamity needing police intervention, with Jo bursting pipes in the wrong house and somehow setting off smoke alarms in the correct dwelling two doors down. There were no mechanics, electricians, or plumbers in Sheffield—Yorkshire, even—remaining who didn’t know about Jo’s many failed apprenticeships by now. Yaz was beginning to worry what being Jo’s “professional reference” would do to her career, particularly if they were to spend much more time on Earth and not gallivanting through the stars. On that last job, the situation fueled by her honesty and social ineptitude, Jo had been detained at the scene, and Yaz had had to smooth things over at the station for her release.

Jo wiped her nose on the rainbow trim of her jumper sleeve. Spring was approaching, and for the first time Yaz could remember, the Doctor was showing signs of allergies to Earth’s plant life.

 _Not the Doctor,_ Yaz scolded herself. _Have to stop thinking of her like that. She’s human now, of course she can have allergies._ She had this argument with herself several times a day: when she found Jo passed out on the sofa in the early morning under a pizza box, when she came home to Jo rummaging in the cabinets for tea, or when she heard Jo singing to herself in the shower. It felt weird to fit the Doctor into such mundane, domestic boxes, though Yaz would ordinarily witness similar, erratic behaviors while living in the TARDIS. 

“I’ll just… go, then,” said Jo, her voice halting, nose tilted toward the floor.

“S’alright,” said Yaz, patting her arm. “Really. Thank you for bringing my lunch. Stupid of me to forget. Just… try to remember only to find me at work if it’s an emergency?”

“‘Course,” Jo mumbled.

It was disheartening to see Jo’s crestfallen face. Quickly, Yaz added, “Bake Off tonight, though, yeah? What is it, pastry week? I’ll pick up from the chippy on my way home, how’s that?”

And Jo brightened considerably, handed Yaz her visitor badge, and waved over her shoulder on her way out the door. At the sight of her retreating back, Yaz could almost pretend she was really the Doctor. She shook her head, catching Sunder’s raised eyebrow from across the room, and made a quick break back to her desk.

In addition to spitting out a nearly blank checkbook with memos scrawled in for rent and other bills, the TARDIS had filled in Jo’s memories: she reported that she had apparently grown up on a farm, spent some time studying in London and dropped out, went abroad after, and decided at the end of her travels to settle in Sheffield. To Jo’s mind, Yaz filled the vacancy for a flatmate. And there was no notion that Yaz had dragged her unconscious body upstairs from the TARDIS in an alley beside their block.

Sonya had all but filled the moving truck by herself.

“Don’t get used to it, I’ll be back home when all this,” Yaz jerked her head at Jo, who was splay-legged on the floor beside the purple sofa, whistling over the parts of a side table, “is over.”

“Did something happen to the D—” Najia started, but Yaz quickly clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Not around Jo,” warned Yaz. Hakim’s brow furrowed.

“Oh, is that her real name? Not just Doc—”

“Shh!” They all looked over at Jo, who gave a cheery wave with an ordinary screwdriver, and continued to struggle building; the pieces and bolts all littered around her knees.

“The Doctor…” said Yaz in an undertone, choosing her words carefully. Jo began pounding nails into her table, which provided sound cover. “This isn’t her. It’s kind of... like amnesia? It’s only temporary,” she added, giving Sonya a sharp glare. “Best not to force her to remember anything. Bad for her recovery,” Yaz invented.

“I’ll bet it was that attack on the New Year,” murmured Hakim, shaking his head slowly. “I didn’t trust those defense drone things in the first place, no matter what the Prime Minister said.”

“Something like that,” said Yaz. Najia and Hakim exchanged a glance, and Yaz smothered a wince.

A yelp startled them, and they all turned to see Jo shove her sore thumb into her mouth.

“Hey, it’s me. How’re you?” Yaz found herself visiting the blue box on her own several times a week. The TARDIS door creaked shut behind her, and darkness enveloped the room. “I can’t stay long, but I thought I’d stop in to check on you,” she said to the air, feeling a little foolish. 

She might have been imagining things, but she had felt a niggling sense of gloom once the chameleon circuit had done its work. A thick fog of disappointment now descended upon Yaz’s shoulders, and the TARDIS gave a halfhearted boop, igniting the lights on the wall for her. “I know. I miss her, too. She’s fine, though! Still our Doctor in there… but you know that.” Though she had never been fully privy to it herself, Yaz had always suspected the TARDIS of having sentience—a notion which the TARDIS itself confirmed once Yaz began to return with updates. The biscuit dispenser clunked, and a custard cream dropped into the chute. “Thanks. Should take a few to Jo, do you think? Can’t seem to keep biscuits around the flat at all…” Five more dropped, and Yaz allowed herself a small smile before wrapping them in a handkerchief.

The lights burned low, and Yaz edged around the console, as though she were approaching a feral cat. She hugged herself, nervous to touch anything else while the Doctor was away, but she steeled her nerves to lay her hand on a smooth surface beside an array of buttons. It pulsed against her palm with energy, as though ready to depart for the next alien planet of its own accord. Yaz glanced at the main lever which could set it all in motion. It lay still and quiet. She returned her attention to the center. “All well here? No unwelcome visitors?”

A tiny bell chimed in response, and a compartment of the console popped open, sliding up to reveal the watch, ordinary at first sight. The concentric circles and crisscrossing lines etched into the cover could have been decorative, but Yaz had seen enough of Gallifrey and knew the Doctor well enough to know it was writing. For weeks, she couldn’t bear to look at it for longer than a second, only to confirm it was there. Now it felt like the circles were drawing her in. Not thinking, Yaz reached to touch.

Her fingertips had barely grazed the metal, but she could _feel_ it. As much as the Doctor was Jo, and as much as the TARDIS had proven that it was alive and aware; hard at first to believe, it was real. The fob watch had a tiny, warm heartbeat all its own. Two of them in an alternating, double rhythm.

If she had had any lingering doubts about the watch containing the unfathomable, they evaporated on the spot.

And as she recoiled, an idea struck her. Though it didn’t feel like her own, it felt somehow correct, this alien notion knocking at her mind.

“Hey… What d’you say we change the guard?” she asked, staring at the sleek lines and brushed brass. “Should anyone come calling, they’d be half as likely to find the watch if we take it in turns.” The TARDIS seemed to growl. With a menacing ratcheting sound, an hourglass twitched forward on its axis, like a dog raising its hackles. Yaz held up her hands. “Just for a little while, then I’ll give it right back. Safer that way, right?” The lights flared in warning, but Yaz squared her shoulders, making stubborn eye contact with whatever in the room seemed to observe her: a monitor, the hourglass, the center of the console. “The Doctor entrusted us _both_ to protect her. Let me help. Please?” The watch vanished once more into the console.

 _There has got to be a better way to communicate with this machine,_ Yaz thought, hearing a disgruntled sort of clicking noise. But slowly, the TARDIS relented, and the watch reappeared in its concealed stand.

“Thank you,” said Yaz, lifting it gently as if it were a baby bird. “I’ll take good care of her. Promise.” The TARDIS made no motion or sound in response, opting—in Yaz’s mind—instead to brood, and it occurred to her that perhaps the box was lonely and the watch with the Doctor’s mind kept it company. “I’ll bring it right back,” she repeated. “Just a couple of days. ...You wouldn’t happen to know what the Doctor’s favorite chips are, would you?”

Outside, she slipped the watch into her jacket pocket beside her keys: one for her flat, one for the family flat, and the last for the TARDIS, which gave a soft keen as Yaz departed.

Her pocket jangled more than usual on her way home, as the watch’s twin pulses tapped through the fabric, contrarily warm against the early March chill.


	3. Jo

Yaz fell asleep before the showstopper round. Predictable; upon move-in, Sonya had mentioned how her sister couldn’t stay awake in front of a television at night. And Yaz snored gently from her corner of the purple sofa, feet tucked under Jo’s thigh. Arriving home with piping chips, curry, and a friendly, somewhat wistful smile, Yaz had apparently thought nothing more about the lunch tin incident. Jo rumpled her hair with half a frown, guilt still tugging at her gut for disrupting Yaz’s workday and getting her in trouble. But she got the feeling that Yaz had more pressing matters on her mind; she never held onto anger or irritation long.

Which was a relief, especially after that last plumbing gig.

It wasn’t that Jo was necessarily good at mechanics or home repairs; something nagged in her head that if she were to pursue a career, it should be in something constructive, mechanical or electrical. A sort of calling, though she felt like she was failing to answer. Deep down, Jo knew she was good at fixing things… It wasn’t _her_ fault that the plumbing didn’t agree with her methods. 

Despite her insistence upon finding a job in repairwork, everything she touched seemed to fall apart or go wonky. She eyed the side table past Yaz’s head, piled with empty takeaway boxes. One of the legs still ended up shorter than the rest, and that was _after_ Yaz had lent a hand. Which said nothing of the thirteen nail holes in the surface.

_Are you sure you need nails? It doesn’t say anywhere in the instructions..._

She’d be able to build one by herself one day, if she got another apprenticeship. Not that she _needed_ a job; her Uncle Whats-His-Name had left her a tidy sum to cover expenses and travel. It was enough to live on and ensure she was cared for, but it would be nice to _do_ something with her time. She couldn’t spend all of her days dog watching. There were a limited number of dogs in Sheffield to watch, after all. Her favorite was a little sausage fellow, Ralph, she heard his owner call him, black with brown markings like eyebrows. Very expressive, and he enjoyed ear scratches.

Beside her, Yaz gave a soft sigh, the sound shaking Jo out of her head.

Reluctant though Jo was to get up, now came the tricky part: not waking Yaz while she cleaned up. Yaz would appreciate it, anyway. And tomorrow was a workday for her, best not to concern her with tidying. Not when she was so understanding earlier—and certainly not since she had brought home Jo’s favorite chips. Gingerly, Jo rose from the couch, leaving her blanket over Yaz’s feet so they wouldn’t get cold in her absence. Yaz didn’t seem to notice the shift and continued her peaceful slumber. Jo allowed herself a small smile, tiptoeing past to the kitchen.

Something told Jo she may have known Yaz in another life, so seamless was their mutual tenancy. She knew she liked Yaz straight away when she turned up to answer her advert: professional, but with a laid back, familiar attitude that Jo adored. Yaz always seemed to know her next move when they dodged each other in the common spaces; she was tuned in to the way Jo breathed, it seemed. And Yaz didn’t mind how socially awkward Jo was, which was objectively the best part about her. Even when Jo confused herself, Yaz understood, or at least pretended to, which made a world of difference. 

Jo tipped the empty boxes into the rubbish chute, whirling back around to catch the handle before the door could bang shut.

Two months was not a long time to know someone, but unlike other people who sometimes looked at Jo like she had two heads, Yaz seemed right at home with her. She didn’t mind that Jo chose most often to wear jumpers and dungarees in all weathers. She didn’t mind coming home to Jo’s (often noisy and unfinished) DIY projects scattered about the floor. And despite her work’s insistence that Jo not come round, she didn’t seem to mind that Jo turned up in the first place. At least, not the first five times.

Jo often wondered when Yaz’s patience with her would run out.

“Best not to torment yourself with that,” she muttered, rinsing plates with the quietest stream of water she could manage.

The TV flickered, casting shadows in every direction. Outside, a car’s headlights swung past their window, pebbles popping under the tires.

Yaz stirred, this time sitting up to rub her eyes. Jo did her best to pretend she didn’t see through the window in the kitchen wall, drilling her eyes to the dishes as she dried, blue checked towel squeaking against the ceramic.

“How long was I out?” Yaz yawned, stretching.

“Not long,” said Jo. She glanced at the clock on the stove. “Oh. Maybe longer than that. Jane won star baker,” she offered. Yaz blinked with puffy eyes, nodding, though she didn’t seem to absorb a word.

“Thanks for clearing up,” she said, slowly rising to her feet.

“Thanks for picking up,” Jo bounced back, and there was a beat. Jo hung up her towel, words burning on her tongue, and she crossed out of the kitchen, back into the lounge. “And, well… thanks for not giving me a hard time today.” She wiped her hands on the hem of her jumper.

“No problem,” said Yaz, toddling toward her room. “You’re still adjusting, there’s nothing to give you a hard time about.”

“Adjusting?”

Yaz’s eyes widened for a split second, and she stumbled over her words. “I mean… it’s only been two months since I moved in, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jo agreed, though she wasn’t sure that’s what Yaz meant at all. A proper addition to the conversation might be a compliment, she judged, a kind word to smooth over any awkwardness. “You’ve been an awesome human about all this,” she said, and the words stuck to her teeth. “Putting up with me. I’m very lucky to have you, Yasmin Khan. I mean, as a flatmate.” This might have been the wrong thing to say, for Yaz turned around with a thunderstruck expression, one that suggested she’d seen an alien. “Did I say something wrong?” Jo blurted after a moment, fidgeting in her pockets under Yaz’s stare.

“No,” said Yaz after what felt like an hour. “No, that’s… very sweet of you.” She bid Jo good night, and closed her bedroom door softer than usual.

Jo felt her nose wrinkle into something uncomfortable, and she slid down against the wall into a crouch, her head in her hands.

When she finally fell asleep in the wee hours, she dreamed she was running. Red sand roiled under her feet, unfurling with every hasty step. A city on the crimson horizon was burning, an ember mist tumbling from the towers. Smoke stung her eyes. Jo flung her arms over her head in time for a beam to fall across her path.

She looked up and the air was cool white, a small crowd of people staring at her in disbelief, their mouths moving, though she couldn't hear a word they said. It was Yaz who grabbed her arm and she tore away, turning from the touch into the wickedly grinning face of a familiar man, flanked by ornate, shining robots, their faces expressionless and cold.

The dream stopped making sense. In the next moment, a herd of rhinoceros had whisked her somewhere far away, dark, and colder still, and then she was floating through space, panicked and reaching for Yaz while more robots zoomed around them in the black.

Jo sat bolt upright to the sound of an ethereal, mechanical wheezing, hope swelling in her chest like another heart. Though she would question it later, it was a sound she could only describe as home, and her family was waiting for her. But morning sun sluiced through her fingers, and she was alone.


	4. Yaz

“You ever feel like you don’t fit in?” asked Jo, laying a card on the table. 

“Only all the time,” said Yaz without thinking. She closed her mouth and drew from the deck. Jo didn’t need to know about the history with Izzy Flint, or the odd readjustments to life on Earth after a long trip through the universe. Much less, the months Yaz had spent living in the spare TARDIS, waking up in a litter of sticky notes, peeling them off her face. Mention of the Doctor’s time away might jog her memory too much, and Yaz didn’t feel like rehashing old wounds.

“The world doesn’t like to make room for what it doesn’t understand,” said Jo sagely.

Yaz said nothing. There it was again, that flicker of the Doctor in the most mundane of things. Torn between wanting to expand the conversation, to tease out more of the Doctor’s habits, and realizing Jo knew absolutely nothing about Yaz other than the tidbits she’d said of herself in the past months, Yaz jumped when Jo gave a gleeful shout.

“SNAP!” she cried, slapping a final card on the table, the queen of diamonds. It was a convoluted game which Jo had invented and won nearly every time, and Yaz humored her in playing every other Sunday. It was a way to feel closer to the Doctor, while she was away and not away. While Yaz was growing fonder of Jo, she had to keep reminding herself that Jo was a temporary fixture. Any day, the TARDIS would give a signal and she could give Jo the watch… She felt the warm lump of metal in her pocket, waiting for Yaz to hand it over so things could go back to normal, so the Doctor could whisk her away again, and leave Earth behind for a while. Getting closer to Jo beyond regular flatmate behaviors—even in a guarded way that wouldn’t reveal too much about Cybermen or Daleks—wouldn’t be worth the effort. Soon enough, Jo would be gone, and the Doctor wouldn’t remember any of it.

If Yaz regretted anything, it was giving in to her anger upon the Doctor’s return. The great bound her heart gave when the TARDIS materialized had given way to a hot surge of anger, that first, hopeful warmth boiling over. She should’ve leapt into the Doctor’s arms, held tight and not let go. She should’ve said she missed her.

Part of Yaz realized she’d shoved her to make sure it really  _ was _ her, the Doctor, beaming at her as if she had won a grand prize. It was the same triumphant smile Jo wore now. Yaz smiled back briefly and ducked her head to gather the cards, remembering how quickly the Doctor’s grin had turned to shock and confusion as she stumbled backward. The horror when she realized how long she’d been gone.

_ I’m sorry.  _ Specifically addressed to Yaz, those fathomless eyes pleading. Then later,  _ I could always use the TARDIS to go back… Change the timeline... _

Yaz’s mouth twisted as she reshuffled the deck. She didn’t miss the irony of the Doctor being both absent and  _ right there _ , happily tallying the score on a notepad. Even Jo’s handwriting was the same untidy scrawl.

_ I won’t disappear again. _

_ Yeah. You will. _

“Gold star for shuffling, Yaz,” said Jo, her voice cutting easily into Yaz’s memory. “You’re really good at that. I always find the cards so fiddly, especially when you’re working with three decks.”

The newness of Jo had well worn off by now, three and a half months after the chameleon arch. There was a sort of comforting routine in knowing that yes, Jo would be there when Yaz got home from work or the grocery, delighted as a puppy to see her. And that comfort nearly always gave way to disappointment that Jo was a mere facsimile of the Doctor, no longer a stranger wearing the Doctor’s face, but still decidedly  _ not  _ her.

Yaz said as much when she visited the TARDIS the next morning. As with every transition day, the panel of console popped open expectantly, as soon as Yaz opened the door.

“Yes, I’ve got it,” Yaz soothed, placing the fob watch in its cradle. Her fingertips hesitated a centimeter from the watch, already missing the little thrumming warmth, but then the watch was gone, tucked away again. “No sign of anything too weird here. Not yet, anyway. Maybe after the Daleks, the world decided to behave a bit.”

Levers twitched on the console, and the center crystal bobbed up and down once in what Yaz understood to be a shrugging motion. 

“Yeah, I know. Bigger universe out there than just here. Maybe Jack’s got things under control on his own. And Ryan and Graham went chasing something in Korea, didn’t they? Wonder when they’ll be back…” A niggling sense had warned her not to tell any of them that the Doctor had become Jo. Whether this was a psychic nudge from the TARDIS or her own mind being selfish and wanting time with Jo to herself, she hadn’t decided. “What d’you think they’d say if they came back round here and ran into her?” The TARDIS hummed thoughtfully. “Right, I suppose they might understand.” Something twinged in Yaz’s throat. Again, irony struck her: all of them were off saving the planet and she was in Sheffield, living a normal life.

As always, she asked on her way out, “Still too dangerous for her to come back?” Yaz couldn’t keep the wistful note out of her voice.

The TARDIS made no response.

“Right, Yaz, about your quarterly review,” said Ramesh, for he had finally allowed her to call him by his first name since her return to the station. He reclined in his swivel chair. “Been enough time since your… hiatus. You seem bored.”

“Haven’t done much since I got back but paperwork and parking, have I?” Yaz was past caring about work reviews, but as they were mandatory and she  _ had _ been shirking her career for over a year, she put on her best face.

“Well, I suppose your secondment must’ve been more exciting.” He nodded, looking at her from under raised eyebrows, still under the impression she’d been at work for MI6.

“Couldn’t tell you if I wanted,” said Yaz with a shrug, playing along.

“Oh, go on.”

“If I tell you it  _ was _ more exciting, will that be enough?”

“Fair enough. Government secrets and all.” He angled his head, neck popping here and there. Ramesh took a draught of tea, eyes darting to Yaz’s untouched mug, the curling steam thinner as it had cooled. After a long pause, he said, “You know I didn’t take you back as a favor, right?” Yaz blinked. “After that fiasco with the security drones, no one’s too keen on police work right now. And despite your disappearances, you were always a good officer.”

“Thanks,” said Yaz carefully. “Makes sense. The Dal—drones caused such a panic.”

“I’ll admit it was surprising to see your application after you quit a year ago. Hopefully this is a more permanent arrangement?”

“For the time being,” said Yaz, taking a moment to choose her words. “I’ve been given leave to be home. Powers that be will call when they need me.” She gave him a winning flash of teeth, but it felt like a grimace.

“So no planned work elsewhere, then?” He leaned forward on his elbows.

“Not at the moment,” she said. “For the foreseeable future I’m—here.” She stopped short of saying “stuck”.

Ramesh smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. How do you feel about ending your probation?”

Leaving Ramesh’s office, the first person Yaz texted was Jo. Ryan and Graham answered quicker than she expected with congratulations and an update that they’d been snowshoeing in Tibet after something Ryan described as a yeti-ish creature. How they managed to get there without speaking a lick of any local languages was beyond her, but then she remembered that while the TARDIS previously did much of the translating work for them, they still had their universal translators implanted. It sounded like they were having fun, though she knew Ryan might still occasionally be exasperated by his granddad.

Yaz’s family made similar congratulatory texts and Najia offered to host dinner, but Yaz declined, the impulse to be alone swirling in her stomach. The rest of the workday seemed to blur by, somehow too quickly and too slowly, and she darted out the station door, eager to get home to her room, away from everyone else. She’d tell Jo she was feeling ill, make some excuse to spend the night alone.

Jo made no response all that afternoon.  _ Probably out dogspotting again,  _ thought Yaz, unlocking the door to their dark flat. Absentminded as Jo was, she sometimes forgot her phone at home, too. Anything was possible, but Yaz knew if something had happened to Jo, she’d know soon enough between work and Jo’s appearances there.

The lights flicked on and Jo all but launched herself at Yaz, throwing her arms around her in a very un-Doctorish way.

“Congrats!” said Jo loudly by Yaz’s ear, giving her a tighter squeeze. “Or was I supposed to say ‘surprise’ first? You were surprised anyway, right? Damn, did I ruin the moment?” Jo was strong, Yaz thought, hugging her back on pure reflex, her wide eyes taking in the state of the flat.

Najia, Sonya and Hakim had helped to tidy and cook, for they had leapt out from behind the sofa, grinning ear to ear. (Sonya was definitely only acting happy, but she smiled all the same.) The lounge was pungent with the warm, spiced aroma of Najia’s cooking, and Yaz could see the table was laden with her favorites and one forlorn-looking plate of her father’s pakora.

“All this time we knew you could do it,” said Hakim proudly, hugging Yaz next and kissing the top of her head. “Always knew you were better at your job than you let on. You have a great career ahead of you, Yaz.”

Yaz hadn’t had time to process the small party as she was passed from person to person for hugs, ushered around by Jo.

“They said you didn’t want to come to dinner, so I thought why not bring dinner to you?” she chattered, but Yaz’s head was spinning.

“It was all Jo’s idea and planning in the end,” said Najia, sharing a conspiring look with her. “It  _ did  _ feel like this needed a proper celebration, didn’t it?” But Yaz was too slow to smile back, and her mother saw. “You alright, love?” she asked, her brows furrowing a little.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” said Yaz automatically. “Just… very surprised. I don’t want anything to get cold, but can I get changed?” She didn’t wait for an answer and, breathless, retreated to the darkened safety of her room.

She sat on the edge of her bed, breathing harder than she realized. Being taken off probation meant just what Ramesh had been hoping for her: permanence. And the universe seemed even further away with that adjustment, exploring with the Doctor that much less feasible. Couldn’t they all see this was in no way a good thing?

They couldn’t, Yaz realized, forcing herself to walk to her wardrobe to select a shirt. For their own various reasons, they didn’t know a thing of the universe outside their planet. Some days, it felt like she was going mad and that perhaps her time with the Doctor was just a fever dream. No one would have believed her anyway. Maybe it was better to pretend this was permanent, that Jo would remain Jo, and the TARDIS would stay quiet when Yaz asked it questions, and that she would indeed have a long and storied career as an officer in the Hallamshire Police. It almost made her want to be sick.

She took her time peeling off her uniform, even longer getting dressed again, and she seated herself on her bed once more, forcing her breath slower, when someone knocked.

“Yaz?” It was Jo. “Your mum says the biryani’s getting cold.” The door opened a crack. “You alright?”

“Yeah, uh, come in,” said Yaz, though it felt pointless. Jo closed the door behind her, her expression like a child who has just been scolded.

“Did I do something wrong?” asked Jo, her nose rumpling a little in dismay. “I can tell everyone you’re not well and they should go home—“

“No, this was lovely, thank you,” said Yaz quickly, unsure if she actually meant it. “Very kind of you and you’re just my flatmate. You didn’t have to go to all the trouble.”

“But I wanted to. For you,” said Jo. “It’s no small thing and I’m… I’m proud of you.” Yaz’s eyes snapped up to meet Jo’s, closer than she expected, and Jo’s gaze scurried to the floor. “If… if that makes sense,” she muttered, balling her fists on the knees of her dungarees. Was she blushing?

“It does make sense,” said Yaz, reaching to pat Jo’s hand in reassurance. It seemed she was always reassuring Jo; it was one of the few dynamics that felt normal, unchanged from her time with the Doctor. Yaz’s hand stayed where it was atop Jo’s, and Jo’s fingers uncurled, neither of them breathing loud enough to hear. “I guess I was just overwhelmed by the… sudden responsibility…” Yaz’s voice died when Jo looked up at her again, her eyes soft, molten hazel.

Was she kissing the Doctor or was she kissing Jo? Or perhaps it was the other way round, because Jo had closed the distance between them for their lips to meet, and it was Jo who pulled Yaz closer, and Yaz didn’t resist. How many times had the thought of kissing the Doctor intruded on another planet or in the TARDIS, whenever they exchanged a knowing glance or hearty laugh? Or upon the rare occurrence of touch, when the Doctor patted her on the back and every nerve sparked to life from the spot? And Jo was all around her, kissing her and holding her, and Yaz couldn’t parse the difference: these were the Doctor’s lips, the Doctor’s arms and hands and body, and Yaz was alight with the feel of her.

They broke apart to breathe, and Yaz remembered this was Jo, but for the first time it wasn’t a disappointment to remember. Jo smiled shyly, and Yaz smiled back, their fingers twining and untwining again as they left Yaz’s room in darkness behind them.

There was the small nag in the back of her mind again, that this was only temporary, but Yaz chose for once to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How bout that New Year special? I'm in shreds over it, but much of it has informed what will happen next. I hope you all had lovely holidays and are staying safe!
> 
> xojo


	5. The Doctor, Four Months Ago

It had to be done. She wasn’t about to lose anyone else. Yaz had been cold since she got back, and Ryan and Graham were already gone. Why couldn't they be quiet, all of the too many things in her mind, too many thoughts processing and chugging along…

The Doctor braced herself over the console. There wasn't a way around it. How many years had she spent purely whiling away time, imagining the fam’s faces upon her return? Even on her lowest days, the thought of Yaz’s smile could lift her spirits at least the width of a molecule.

_People waiting for you._

In truth, it had all been bravado, that grand entry. If she was really, _really_ honest with herself. And besides, she rather liked this body’s air of confidence; rather handy in a pinch. Even if it didn’t always get her out of trouble.

On the flight in with Jack, she’d silently agreed with herself: the fam wasn’t to know about what she’d estimated was ninety-eight-point-zero-seven-six percent of what she’d thought about in prison. And of that knowable fraction, she expected she’d tell them about three percent. It was the truth that they _didn’t_ need to know everything about that dreadful place, and after all, “space jail” sounded more than a trifle better than nutrition blocks, greeting security cameras every morning, staring at the ceiling and reciting books to herself until it was time to start over. Which said nothing of her ongoing existential crisis, which she’d both latched onto and pushed away at times in the artificial nighttime darkness.

As a game to keep her mind off things, she’d discussed odds with Tiny, whenever she could get him to stand still.

“What d’you reckon?” she’d asked the Pting through the bars, “You think Yaz, Ryan, or Graham will go in for the hug first?” Tiny growled, and tried to fit as much of his mouth around the bars as possible, before he was forced back. “That’s very sweet of you,” she said, “but I suspect they’ve charged these here cages with some kind of adaptive negative energy. Even you couldn’t eat our way out of it.” But in a show of solidarity, she gave the metal a lick, and it took a solid week for her to gain any feeling in her tongue back—which was all the better, for she couldn’t taste her rations. It was almost a disappointment when she _could_ taste again; at least when her tongue wasn’t functioning, she could pretend she was tucking in to a custard cream or buttered crumpet.

“I think odds are best for Yaz,” she told Tiny when she could speak again. “But Graham is an old softie, he’s a close second. Ryan’s our wild card here, but in the best way—would love a Ryan hug...” When she closed her eyes, she could see their faces, and the assortment of relief and joy that was waiting for her. She could almost feel their arms around her, before she realized she had rarely, if ever, hugged them at all.

If she was really honest with herself, she knew she herself would feel the strongest surge of relief. A few decades was nothing to a nearly ageless entity as she, but she wondered if the fam missed her as much as she missed them.

“Don’t be daft,” she’d mumble to herself in her cell. “They won’t even have time to miss you when you get back.” And she’d roll over. “But then, maybe you _want_ them to miss you, just for a little while. It would make things fairer, wouldn’t it?” Often, she'd scowl at this admission. In previous lives, she’d holed up for centuries, eons, even, and everyone was fine. Sort of. How long was she in the Pandorica, again?

She glanced at the Pting with a fond smile. “Go on, then, roll up. What d’you wager?”

Tiny coughed up a crumpled, useless wrench, and began to gnaw on it like a teething child, his little grunts giving her not the faintest clue if he’d listened. The Doctor guessed that this was his buy-in.

Evidently, the imaginary community pot was upended the moment Yaz shoved her.

Perhaps she hadn’t realized it, but the Doctor had actually missed the sensation of touch while she was isolated. She wouldn’t ordinarily seek it out herself, but she was _so_ looking forward to hugging her fam, to holding them for a long moment, even if she was going to play it cool. It was only space jail, after all, and they wouldn’t even know how long she was gone.

Which was why the shove hit her like an electric shock. And a second shock: the fam’s faces were stony; surprised, sure, but their expressions all mingled with something the Doctor thought looked like betrayal. And another: it hadn’t been only an hour for the fam, but nearly a year. It was as if she had been plunged into freezing water over and over, or she had a fresh wound which everyone took turns slapping.

And all that was without mentioning the Daleks.

“I think I need a holiday from being me,” she told her TARDIS wearily. “Too many things all at once, and our fam is dwindling. Got to make it up to Yaz, at least.” The TARDIS warmed under her palms, a comforting gesture. “Yeah,” said the Doctor. “Yeah, you’re my fam, too. Not going anywhere in a hurry, are you? Let’s hope not.”

The TARDIS hummed, as if to say, ‘ _Many things at once’ is our speciality, Doctor._

“You’re right,” she sighed. “Sometimes we’re too good at it, eh?” 

Dark and looming, the archway to the hall felt oppressive to the eye. Only an hour earlier, Yaz had disappeared to her room with barely a word of goodnight. “She deserves more time than I could give,” the Doctor murmured. “Ten months thinking I was gone.” Yaz, Ryan and Graham would have all had birthdays in that time. If what Graham had mentioned was true, that Yaz forgot about dates as time went on, she would have spent her birthday alone. And the sticky notes inside the spare TARDIS, like a shingled wallpaper of Yaz’s neat handwriting only confirmed it more. 

Even with what little time she had to set the spare TARDIS controls before the Daleks’ arrival, the Doctor had to admire how much Yaz had picked up on their travels. It didn’t seem like she had got very far, not on the grand scheme of rescue, but the Doctor felt a pang realizing that Yaz had searched for her; that she'd tried, even if she hadn’t left her own time in Sheffield.

Some of the notes detailed failed experiments with flying the TARDIS, suggestions for a better attempt next time; others speculated on where the Doctor had gone and how Yaz could reach her. A pile of shredded notes festooned one corner, like a garish heap of autumn leaves. Yaz’s sleeping bag was a shed caterpillar skin, lumped against another wall.

What made the Doctor wince even more were the infrequent, sometimes halfhearted contributions by Graham and Ryan, most of which were covered up by more recent developments in Yaz’s hand. Graham and Ryan had nearly given up on the search. And now they were both gone, off to live the great lives the Doctor had hastily blessed them with before taking the Death Particle—

“Stop it,” she half shouted at herself, clasping her hands to her head. It liked to loop like that, the pain, circling the same way she paced around her cell in prison, always ending up at that same dank corner near the window. She could only say she was the Doctor so many times before she realized it was, at worst, merely a bracing lie.

“Maybe it’s time for the Doctor to end,” she muttered. The TARDIS lights flashed brighter. “No, not like that,” she added hastily. “No, I mean… Just for a little while. A break. A-a holiday, like I said before. Only temporary, it's not like I got a holiday in prison. D’you think I can give Yaz back the time that I missed?”

The lights dimmed in response, the TARDIS mulling over the question.

“And with time travel, of course, we’ll be able to go back and patch up anything that happens elsewhere…” said the Doctor, not waiting for an answer. She made eye contact with the center crystal. “Will you let me do this? For Yaz?” The TARDIS made no audible response, except to sullenly slide open a section of wall to reveal her pulsing chameleon circuit, still fritzed after all these years. The Doctor wouldn’t have to make much repair or adjustment to it, and her coat pocket (bless the TARDIS’ replicating wardrobes) produced a fob watch as though she had summoned it. It would only be a couple hours’ work, enough for a cup of tea or five, and Yaz would wake in time for an explanation.

“Now I just need…” The Doctor patted her pockets once more, only to be disappointed. Her nose wrinkled. Damn those prison regulations, she’d worked so hard to weld Sheffield steel to Stenza crystal. Had they any idea how fiddly those mechanical parts got so the crystal could turn and— 

A panel of the console peeled back, revealing a new sonic screwdriver, though it seemed hollower, less spirited than the first. It certainly wasn’t made of spoons, but she didn’t have time to make another on her own.

“Thanks, love,” murmured the Doctor, taking it and giving the console a fond stroke. She looked back at the center crystal soberly. “Will you take care of her for me? Yaz. I mean, she can take care of herself and it’s not like I’ll be _gone—"_

The TARDIS chuffed like a tiger at rest.

“Course you will,” said the Doctor, the smallest fond grin tugging her lips. She wasted no more time and set to work. “Wonder who I’ll be. What d’you think about names, eh? What about Jo, always liked Jo as a name… Simple, elegant, and thoroughly uncomplicated.” The TARDIS dropped her a custard cream, and the crisp vanilla melted on her tongue with the name, fresh and clean flavors she had missed nearly as much as her fam, mingled with the new. The Doctor hadn’t known anything in the universe to taste better, and she tinkered with a determined lightness, eager to leave herself behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, yeah, I'm in pain :) I've had this idea for this chapter floating around a bit and I wanted to utterly purge myself of it. Here ya go. :) Join me in hell. :)
> 
> (But seriously, if you're looking for something softer and happier, I have many others... suppose I ought to update with my Hurtsville tag, huh...)


End file.
